When we're each in our own skin, this mean even more to me. The time apart together, reaching across the bucket seats to place your hand on my thigh, what was that story you were telling me? Your hand rubs my knee, your eyes on the road, gleeful jabbering coming from the back seat.
Tell me the one again about how Buddy was staring at your cute butt that time, when we came back from our honeymoon early, so you could play that gig; tell me the one about Bridget, was that her name? your trouble-making loyal great dane who chased down one too many of the farmer's chickens; tell me again about the time your well-meaning rock found the prize rooster's head, after he clawed your shins for the last time, how you were bereft, laid his lifeless chicken corpse at the side of the road, because he had that reputation for truck chasing, and your mother would never know.
Love me pregnant, cherish me for growing your baby. Sit by my hospital bedside as I bleed, near death, hanging on, hold my hand, look into my eyes, tell me you love me, sleep there on that hard chair day and night, don't leave me. Make them bring me back; you don't give them a choice; you don't give me a choice, and that's why I'm still here. That is the you who loves me, the you I love so much.
It isn't just the sea, our bed, my warm body wrapping around you that makes us last; it's the in between, how we dance around the edges, the time after going, before coming, when you say I understand, you know how my mind tortures me, your smile eases sadness away like a sigh, touch, squeeze, and I remind and remember you in the quiet of your pain.
This is how we make love.